The Will of Love and Life (Peterick)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A/N: Sorry it's been a week. Or two. Okay, fine, two and a half. I've been focusing a lot on Nothing Rhymes with Coffee, especially since this story is almost over. It feels weird to say that because this story has been a huge part of my life for the past year and a half. And now, in a few chapters, I'm not going to have it anymore and that kind of sucks. I'm gonna miss it.

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January 18, 2017

Pete would admit that he felt like a housewife. Patrick was at work for at least two hours after Pete's shift was over, and he was always too tired to do anything when he got home, leaving Pete to clean the house. Considering that Pete lived there too, he figured the least he could do was keep the place clean. Especially since Patrick seemed to be lacking in that department. He didn't mind being the one to do it, but he wished that he got some sort of appreciation for it.

And living with Patrick made him notice a lot more. Patrick was extremely impulsive, and Pete tried not to get upset when Patrick started spending tons of money without consulting him. He made a mental note to start keeping track of how much Patrick was drinking. But he drew the line when he saw the speeding ticket that Patrick tried to hide from him. Patrick's driving always made Pete nervous, so finding out about an eighty in a fifty-five almost got Patrick murdered.

Pete knew that Patrick loved him and that he wasn't trying to scare him or make him angry. But Patrick was being a stand-off, even more so than usual, and maybe Pete's goal for the day was to figure out why. One day Patrick was promising him an engagement ring and a wedding, and the next day he didn't even want to kiss him.

Pete knew what was wrong, and it had nothing to do with him. Even so, he couldn't help but feel as though it was his fault Patrick was feeling so twisted again.

As Pete was putting away the laundry, his mind drifted to the room at the end of the hall with the door always slightly ajar. He didn't know what was in it, but there was a silent understanding that he wasn't supposed to know what was inside.

He could see the door to the room from where he was standing, and the thought of finding something in it much outweighed the prospect of Patrick getting angry at him, so he hung up the last shirt and made his way to the door. It felt heavy as he pushed it open.

He stopped for a moment before going in, trying to gauge just how pissed off Patrick would be if he found out. He quickly realized that he didn't care how mad Patrick would get. Patrick could yell and make him feel guilty all he wanted, but he would never hurt him.

He took a shaky breath before walking in. It was hard to breathe in the room. It felt different. It felt like depression. The walls were dark, and Pete's eyes immediately caught on the hole. He crossed the room to look at it, but on the way was the bloody, abandoned knife. He bit his lip and hesitantly grabbed the handle. He slipped it into the wall. It fit perfectly. He pulled it out but didn't put it back on the table.

He was surrounded by old paintings and pictures that Patrick abandoned. There were boxes stacked in one corner. They were all labeled: books, dad's vinyls, paint, etc. Pete didn't open them. He knew that would be going too far.

The easel in the middle of the room was what he was avoiding. There was a painting propped up on it, if you could even go as far as to call it that. He couldn't make out what it was meant to be. He was distracted by the bloody slash. He glanced down at the knife in his hand. The bloody one. Back to the painting. Red pen writing in the corner. 02/11/17. Twenty-four days away. Not the way an artist dates a completed painting.